Tuesday, December 11, 2012

Yes Cecil, A Long Story Short, Part Sixteen

But for the momentary interest in the
handsome Airedale terrier looking out from the passenger window of a
small white sedan, Jerome's drive home was much like a stylus in a
groove, his mind preoccupied with Thérèse, this new mysterious
commission, and the invitation to Trieste by P. K. Loveridge. Habit had taken him
home. All he could really remember was the face of the Airedale.

Using the electronic garage door
opener, he entered the dark cavern that would safely sequester his
ageing deux-chevaux for the winter months. Stepping on fog spiced
with exhaust fumes, he made his way out, pressing the button to close
the door. No mail in the box. It was an odd building. Standing alone,
a three story thin building at the back of a property, with access
along a leafy back alley. It had initially begun life as a
substantial brick car garage, but the present owners had developed it
into a modest home, with living quarters on two added upper floors,
the top-most of which Jerome used as his art studio, rich in natural
light coming from large windows and skylights.

The neighbour's little white dog yapped
in their yard as he climbed the exterior stairs to the
second floor. His answering machine was blinking its red beacon of
hope, but Jerome only found a recorded message for a contest to win a
cruise. Up to his studio, he went over to a work table and chose a
cassette to play. He truly loved the sound of a cassette tape in its
plastic box when handled. And their size, you could flip them over in
one hand in a continuous pattern like a meditation device, a pleasing
plastic percussion instrument. He was in the mood for Etienne Daho
and put his Paris Ailleurs in the stereo, then walked over to
the unfinished painting on the easel as the singer broke into Un
homme a la mer.

He could paint
himself in the bottom right of the painting, kneeling down to pet an
Airedale who looked out at the viewer. And Jonathan Landgrave, he
could use his face and his long camel hair coat for one of the figures in the distance. That would
almost finish the painting. He could do it today, but the need to do
a little research on the Bronzino painting disrupted that calmness he
required to do his best work. Suddenly feeling fatigued, having slept
poorly the night before, he went over to the chaise-lounge and lay
down. The sharp edge of the binding of P. K. Loveridge's collection
of poetry, Alacrity and Karma on a Yacht off Palmyra, jabbed
at his ribs. He withdrew it and opened the volume. Turning the first
pages, he came to the dedication page and read:

To Mélisande

I know no joy wherein thou hast not
part,

My speeding wind, my anchor, and my
goal.

-Giordano Bruno.

What an obscure
reference he thought. He turned the page and read the first poem
entitled Prologue:

While tourists come and go
below the antique light,

Above the horse's hoof,
aloof the spiders spin

Twin galaxies of thread.
They spread with octave might,

A danse macabre, a rondo,
lento with each step

The lamp their mystic
moon, and soon their school of night.

In morning haze, the maze
of silk reveals its prey

Like sailors in the
shrouds, or clouds in distant space.

Entanglements of string
that linger with the day.

Mute requiems in lace. To
trace all time in warp

And weft, has left me on
the cobblestones astray.

The street my labyrinth
path, my breath an open gate,

With
lifeline, headline, heart, I'll start; I'll chalk the slate.

Jerome closed the
volume and rested it on his chest. Mélisande. He wondered if she
would take old Loveridge back. Perhaps this volume was his attempt to
curry her forbearance. Trieste. What was he doing over there anyway?
Breathing the second-hand smoke of Svevo, tripping on uneven paving
stones like Joyce, or scaring horses with his eyes like Richard Burton?

He closed his, and
soon fell into a light sleep.

He could see
Thérèse and Mélisande at a table in the crowded night club or
restaurant, but he was blocked from getting to them and forced up a
spiral staircase by faceless jostlers. Then, finding himself outside
at the entrance, he began walking away. A sleek convertible drove by,
Loveridge and Landgrave sitting side by side, but they didn't see or
notice him. There were people everywhere, as if a street party had
broken out. He began to run after the car and soon found himself down
by the old port, a tall ship at anchor. He was running towards it
along a narrow path and saw another man running towards him. Just
before he could recognize the man, he awoke, the book slipping off
his chest to the floor, bumping the soft front edges of the volume.

He sat up and
rubbed his eyes, wiped his lips and sighed loudly. Mélisande. He
could go see her at the Religious Studies library where she worked
and talk to her. Maybe she has heard from Thérèse. Then he could go
over to the main library to do some Bronzino research.

He changed into
more comfortable jeans, and put on his soft desert boots. The walk
would do him good he hoped.

♪

“Split
Enz.”

“Sorry?”
Julie said, smoothing her hair with that most classic of hand
gestures, thinking it odd that her boss would be commenting on the
state of her hair.

“That
song you're humming. It's by the group Split Enz. I haven't heard
that one in ages.”

“Oh. I
heard it on the radio coming to work. My boyfriend changed the radio
station and that song came on. I can't get it out my head. One of
those ear-worms.” And then she sang the refrain from Six Months
in a Leaky Boat followed by la de da de daaaaaaaa de da de da da
de da da.

“My
wife says that if you hum the tune of Spider Man you can get rid of
any earworm.”

“I
don't know that one.”

Duncan
realized once again he was old.

“I
have to go out to do some errands this morning. I know you can hold
the fort. There are no deliveries or pick-ups today, so if you want
to lock the front door, and put the sign up for people to ring if
they want to enter, please do. I'll be back by one o'clock before you
go. By the way, how is your other job going?”

“Good,
good. The salon is doing well.”

“Good,
good,” he said, feeling like an idiot repeating her words. “Right
then, see you later,” and with those parting words he was out in
the fog with the 1881 cash book in a laptop bag over his arm. Julie
was a smart young women. He was glad he could offer her the four
hours each morning from nine to one before her shift at the salon
from two to six. She worked hard and her boyfriend was studying
engineering so they would be alright in the end he felt. In the end.
He sighed as he walked along in the fog in the direction of up town.
It would be a bit of a walk, and he wondered if he would have luck in
catching a bus. Amelia had the car today so he was au pied.

Mélisande
Bramante would be able to help him. The Religious Studies library where Mélisande worked was such a warm and generally inviting place. Perhaps the quietest library on campus. A favourite spot of his to study when he was at the University.

She was fluent in Latin and would be able to help him with the text he found at
the back of the cash book. Missing a title page and other preliminary pages, he hadn't been able to make much of the text, other than to think it touched on religious themes and that it was very old. Had he
gone to that private school when he was eight, he might well have
studied Latin. He tried not to bring up the fact with Amelia for she
had tired of hearing how he had been chosen and had passed the
admittance test like his best friend David, but his parents, finding
that the yearly fee was $1,000, had to tell him it was something they
could not possibly manage. Such a sum in 1966 was insurmountable to
them. His parents had only finished high school and higher education
and its culture was unknown to them. A stay-at-home Mom raising three
sons and a Father struggling to keep a family business running was
already a test of their perseverance skills. And how would his other
brothers feel if he went to Lower Canada College while they remained
in the public system? Guilt. Pride. He could see now it had been a
roadblock that had stirred up pride, that most blinding of sins.
Frustrated pride had steered many of his movements from that moment
on. It was only with many years of looking back, could he see the
circuitous path, with all its choices and decisions, punctuated by
the 'if onlys' and 'what ifs.'

Seeing
a bus waiting at the corner, he ran and managed to just get on before
it heaved into the street sending Duncan grasping for a hand-hold.
Fumbling for change, he managed to produce the required coinage and
find a place to stand near the back. It was as if the bus was in a
vapour tunnel. The windows were quite fogged with humidity. He looked
down. The woman in front of him was using an Kobo eBook reader.
Duncan could see it provided secrecy and anonymity. One could be
reading the latest Daniel Steele or the Hohenstaufen Inheritance or
whatever those titles of Robert Ludlum books were, and no one would
know. And to read with such ease. And to be able to download out of
print books printed before 1923, books he had pined for when in his
early youth they had been so far from available, was extraordinary to
him. Such a wealth of information available to kids these days. He
was sure there must be some youngsters out there taking advantage.
They should be geniuses by the age of ten. Surely.

The
bus came to an abrupt stop sending Duncan swinging round bumping
shoulders with a large bearded man who merely glared as Duncan said
he was sorry. No wonder people take their cars he thought. He followed the flow,
inching toward the back door like automatons, and out into the foggy
but welcome open air. He realized he was two blocks short of his
destination. Two blocks short of a destination. That was a good one
he thought. He should write that one down. 'That guy's two blocks
short of a destination, if you know what I mean.' He would have to
walk the remainder, but he was fine with that. The walk, he hoped,
would do him good.

Chumley's Rest

On Books

Henry James Quotes

The only success worth one's powder was success in the line of one's idiosyncrasy. Consistency was in itself distinction, and what was talent but the art of being completely whatever it was that one happened to be? One's things were characteristic or were nothing.

-The Next Time (Story originally published in The Yellow Book; issued in his collection Embarrassments, 1896.)

"We know too much about people in these days; we hear too much. Our ears, our minds, our mouths, are stuffed with personalities. Don't mind anything that anyone tells you about anyone else. Judge everyone and everything for yourself." (R. Touchett)